


with a tear, the truth comes

by broomclosetkink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fix-it fic, Sherlolly - Freeform, The Sign of Three AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dance with me.” Neither a question nor a command, but a nebulous in-between that showcases the vulnerability Sherlock tries so very hard to hide. How many people get to see it? Are blessed with the knowledge that, at least for some small measure of time, she was the most important person in his world? The woman that counted, the only one that mattered...</p>
            </blockquote>





	with a tear, the truth comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longest_journey](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=longest_journey), [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to longest_journey over on tumblr, for her fantastic help and being kind about my absolutely meager German skills. And to my blessed, angelic, darling, utterly kind and beautiful beta, MizJoely, without whom I would probably never publish Sherlolly fic again. 
> 
> Disclaimer: If no one else wants it, I'm happy to own Sherlolly. Seriously.

“I can't help but notice that you came alone. Far be it from me to claim to be an expert on relationships, but I thought this was something couples did together.” Sherlock gestures with one hand, directing Molly's gaze not simply to the sight of John and Mary dancing cheek-to-cheek and positively glowing, but to the whole ordeal.  _Weddings_.

 

Molly can't see him, given how he's positioned himself behind her. But his breath is hot and moist against the back of her neck when he lowers his head just  _so_ , ruffling stray strands of hair that feather teasingly against her jaw and the nape of her neck. His arm is extended out, and Molly is almost –  _almost_  – trapped. It makes her stomach drop and extremities tingle, because Sherlock is  _this close._ He smells of expensive cologne, soap, and warm skin; and oh, how he radiates heat. He's like a furnace, burning as hot as his brilliant mind, a sun trapped beneath flesh and bone.

 

“Tom had to work.”

 

“Mmm, did he?” There's derision in Sherlock's voice, censured but not entirely eradicated. Molly hadn't expected he and Tom to be mates, or even to like each other, and so this isn't surprising. What _is_ utterly shocking, at least to her way of thinking, is that Sherlock doesn't rip Tom apart whenever they meet – which is becoming more and more frequently as the weeks pass.

 

In his own way, Sherlock tries to be kind. Even friendly.

 

Molly should be grateful. Sherlock is always going to have a place in her life, and the two of them playing nice makes things so much easier. But it drives her  _mad_ , absolutely  _batty_ , the way Sherlock forces that grimace of a smile on and says, “Hello, Tom,” whenever they pop round for tea with Mrs. Hudson or meet up for drinks. Imagine it! Sherlock Holmes meeting up with Molly and Tom, Mary and John for  _drinks_  and  _dinner_! It's horrifying, is what it is. And he's nice! As nice as Sherlock can be, at least, which is shockingly subdued from the manchild he was before he faked his death and eradicated a criminal empire.

 

She misses his biting observations and the way he could run her dates off with five sentences or less. What does that say about her? That she daydreams about Tom dropping by Bart's for lunch, maybe, and catching she and Sherlock in the lab? That her favorite consulting detective would run his gaze up and down sweet, handsome, rather dull Tom Smith and find him utterly and totally lacking... and would  _call_  him on it? Anger him enough to make Tom ask for the ring back.

 

Not that she doesn't want to get married. She  _does_. Tom's perfectly lovely, so very nice. She's met his parents, and he's very sweet. He doesn't mind how she babbles, and he even likes her breasts. They might be small, but they're rather pretty, and... and...

 

“Yeah, um, he's playing King Lear. Just got the role, and well, he didn't want to let the understudy stand in this early in the run, so...” Molly shrugs, and Sherlock's coat brushes her left shoulder. It's hard to breathe. God, why is he so comfortable with her now? It was easier when he kept her at arm's length.

 

“Oh yes, I can see how that would take precedence over accompanying his fiancee to the wedding of a pair of close friends.” Ah, acidic sarcasm dripping with scathing annoyance. There's the Sherlock she knows and loves.

 

Likes.  _Likes_. Appreciates. Is friends with. Is no longer romantically interested in, because  _Tom_ , that's why. Lovely man. Nice teeth. Has a dog. Sweet parents.

 

(And not Sherlock. Oh God, but he's not  _at all_  Sherlock...)

 

Nervous laughter, and Molly hates the sounds the sound of it. It grates on her own nerves, never mind how it must annoy him. (If only she were more like the dominatrix, Irene Adler. Not the dead bit, though Sherlock would be far more interested in her body if she  _were_ , but beautiful. Overtly sexual. Had a nice walk, instead of sort of... clomping. It's no wonder he fell for that woman, such a shame she had to die. A woman like Adler is worth a hundred Molly Hoopers, at least when it comes to a man like Sherlock.)

 

“Oh, I don't mind. Greg's danced with me, and you kept us entertained, what with your crime solving. I even got to examine a body! Suppose it is good that Tom couldn't come, he gets queasy when I talk about work.” Now here's a mistake, turning sideways to look at Sherlock. Her movement prompts his hand to move, splaying across her back, fingers curling about one sharp hip.

 

God, his hands are big.

 

Sneering, Sherlock drawls, “Oh, I'm sure  _Tom_  gets quite queasy.” Such a long, breathless pause. He's looking Molly over, looking through her skin and into her mind. Her  _soul_. She hasn't got secrets when it comes to Sherlock, and heavens above but that hurts. At least he leaves most of them in the dark, now. “Isn't it dull, Molly?”

 

“Isn't what dull?” How could anything be dull? She's looking into his eyes, and they change color with each thought and emotion. Drowning in them would be far easier than being sucked under ocean waves, and Molly would gladly go under.

 

A faint smile, his lips quirking just so. The movement of his hand, rasping against the fine linen of her thin dress, so close to skin that it's hard not to drift further into his orbit. “Isn't  _Tom_  dull? You can't discuss your field of choice, your work days, lectures you attend... cases you work with me. What does that leave you to discuss at the end of the day?”

 

“Oh, um, lots,” Molly lies, and she's taken a half step forward. Inhaling brings her the scent of Sherlock's breath, flavored with liquor. Shocking, that is, as he never drinks. Not since he got clean, at least. He must be upset about losing John; Sherlock never has handled change well. “There's my lunch, and breaks, and... my mum. His work, his family, his friends...”

 

“Equally dull, I'm sure.”

 

“For you, it would be.” When Tom talks, Sherlock gets this glazed look in his eyes, like he's either fallen asleep with his eyes open or is day dreaming of Tom's funeral. Isn't it disgusting, how Molly thinks it's  _adorable_? Not because Sherlock is so very far  _above_  her fiancee, but because he doesn't slaughter the poor man with sharp observations and dangerously barbed taunts. Because he  _tries._

 

“For you as well. There's no lying to me, Molly Hooper; you're far more clever than you let your  _Tom_  see. It must bore you tears, and yet you keep soldiering on. Why?” His thumb is rubbing along her jaw. How did that happen? Why is he saying these things, touching her, leaning his head down so far a dangling curl brushes her forehead?

 

“I've moved on,” she says, and does everything she can to try and  _believe_  it again.

 

“Dance with me.” Neither a question nor a command, but a nebulous in-between that showcases the vulnerability Sherlock tries so very hard to hide. How many people get to see it? Are blessed with the knowledge that, at least for some small measure of time,  _she_ was the most important person in his world? The woman that counted, the only one that mattered...

 

Words aren't needed; she takes his hand. Etta James croons that old wedding stand-by, and Sherlock palms the small of her back and drifts into an easy, small stepping sway. Molly rests her head on his shoulder, trembling and not at all convinced that she isn't going to have a heart attack. As easily and naturally as breathing, as slowly and delicately as any young lad questioning his first hesitant steps towards intimacy, his fingers widen before sliding in the slots between Molly's own.

 

The tears burn as they spring up, setting the corners of her eyes and sinus cavity on fire. “It's not fair to only want what you can't have.” Thickly spoken, the words are hard to come by. Turning her head, Molly lays her ear over his heart, and it's beating so strongly she wonders how it doesn't fly free. “Tom loves me, Sherlock. He wants me all the time, not just when he needs me. We could build a life together, something solid.”

 

He pulls her closer, as though a physical grip will keep her from returning to the man who asked her to be his wife. “Boring, plain, unexciting. It would burn out within ten years, and the children would be traumatized by their parents divorce. Think of the  _children_ , Molly.”

 

Oh, she's laughing. How can she not? He's trying to use her unborn children with another man to convince her to break off an engagement! “Hypothetical children I've not even planned on having.”

 

“You love children. As a young girl you wanted several: seven, I believe. Now you've settled on three.”

 

Can he deduce all this from her appearance? No, surely not: conversations then, overheard. Bits and bobs, slotting them together and filling it all in, puzzle pieces of her life. Damn him. “I don't know if I want children with Tom, though. My hours are long, and he's so busy trying to get his acting career to really take off...”

 

“I imagine I'd be a terrible father.” Sherlock chuckles, low and sad. It catches in his throat, as though caught between the ribs with a knife. “Can you imagine it, Molly? Me with children?”

 

“Don't.” There's no stopping the tears, not now. Oh, yes, she  _can_ imagine Sherlock Holmes as a father, now that he's returned from his war and matured. Not a regular dad, no; he'd be fun though, engineering science experiments and teaching martial arts, musical lessons and advanced maths. He'd be  _fun_ , in his own odd way. How bright and clever their children would be, Sherlock's exuberance and Molly's sweetness...

 

It hurts. It hurts so  _badly_ , because after it all happened, she'd thought of this often. Of how it would all be different when he came home, of  _what_  they would be. Until she'd woken up alone on a Tuesday morning, blinking back the cobwebs of dreams, and realized that was all she'd have with him. Dreams and fantasies, that she'd always be left behind, waiting. Every day would be a lonely Tuesday morning, alone and surviving on the honey water of fantasies. Enough to sustain life, but not nearly enough to satisfy a famished woman. So she'd started going out and dating, met lots of blokes and a few lovely women, but settled on Tom because he's got a gentle soul and would never dream of arguing with her over how much weight she's gained.

 

And she was  _happy_ , damn it. She really was.

 

“You're  _not_ happy.” With a voice gone low and ragged, riddled with a cancerous agony, Sherlock brings them to a halt. They stand on the edge of the dance floor, unmoving, while all around them merriment and life rushes along in the pinkness of a spring sunset. His free hand abandons her waist, moves up to curl around her neck. How delicate and hesitant his touch is, wholly unsure at this daring new closeness. “Molly, I'd stand back and watch you marry a hundred different men if you were truly  _happy_. But you're not. You deserve so much  _better_ than... than settling for some random bloke just because he's nice and you get along with his parents. You used to shine with hopefulness, Molly, and now it's... it's gone.”

 

Wetness dripping off her chin, the peak of her nose. Oh, she's well and trying crying now, isn't she? Damn this man.  _Damn_  him. “Of course I was hopeful! I knew, I just  _knew_  that – that one day you'd walk in the lab, or morgue, and you'd – you'd  _see_ me –”

 

“Molly –”

 

“No, you – you have to listen to me, Sherlock. I deserve that. I've earned it.” Sucking in a breath between her teeth, Molly steps back. It's cold outside of his grasp, and she wants to dive back in. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? To take what he can give, to live off scraps and not ask for more. “I've... I've loved you for so long that I can't remember a time when I didn't. But you don't want me, and that's – that's fine. You don't have want me back. But I'm not going to spend my whole life following you around, waiting for an apology and kiss on the cheek, a thank you, a – a bloody chance to save your life, and go back on the back burner when you've gone on with real life!”

 

Through her tears, Molly can see Sherlock: white as a ghost, jaw tense and hands balled into fists, and a look of absolute misery in his eyes. “Molly...” he croaks, throat working hard as he attempts to speak.

 

She doesn't listen to his apology or explanation. Leaving may be cowardly, but it feels as though she's drowning in the heartache of it all, and her slender ring with its little diamonds feels as heavy as a ton of lead. There are curious eyes watching them, mouths moving behind hands and whispering intimately into each other's ears. Mrs. Hudson has a hand over her mouth, eyes full tears as she looks between Molly and Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock – Sherlock,  _wait_  –” John's voice, louder than any other.

 

Molly escapes, chest aching with the pressure of unreleased sobs.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Looking out the peep hole of her hotel room, Molly is met with the sight of the new Mrs. John Watson. She's golden, flushed, and glowing despite the worried frown on her face.

 

“I know you're there,” Mary insists, giving the peephole a stern frown. “I can hear your breathing.”

 

“You can't hear me breathing,” refutes Molly, before grimacing. Walked right into that one, didn't she? No point in hiding, Mary would spend her honeymoon banging on the door, or maybe trying to scale the side of the building to crawl through the window. Mrs. Watson is a bit mad, but in the best possible way.

 

It takes only a moment to throw the dead bolt, click the lock, and slide the chain out of place. The door opens with a shrill squeak. “Go back to the reception,” Molly urges. “I'm fine.”

 

“Sounds lovely, we'll catch up when we're back from the honeymoon. Ta!” Waving cheerfully, Mary turns, leaving Molly to gape after her.

 

 

She might have insisted just a  _few_  more times, mightn’t have she? Before her outrage can be expressed in a wholly undignified squawk, Sherlock steps into view. He'd been lurking around the corner... and is no doubt the explanation as to why Mary is in the process of bolting off.

 

Murmuring, “Unfair tactics,” Molly nonetheless steps aside while holding the door open. Is there any point in fighting this? Not really. The past six months have proven that Sherlock is far more obliging to her requests and (very few) demands. So why does she allow him inside? For the same reason that she fetches his coffee, threw a corpse out of a window, and cries herself to sleep thinking about walking down the isle to pledge herself to another man.

 

Because she loves him.

 

“You can't keep doing this to me, Sherlock.” Someone has to start, and if Molly doesn't spit this out now, she's never going to be able to. It hurts too badly. Nice deep breath, now: good girl, let it out. All right. She can do this. “You know how I felt... how I  _feel_... feel about you. And it's unfair to – to jerk me around and give me just enough. I have a chance to have something with Tom, and it may not be a fairytale, but it'll be... it'll be more than you are willing to give me, or want to give me, or... whatever it is that keeps you from doing... that sort of thing. And I'm not judging you! It's all right, you know, to not want those things. But I do. And I... I can't just keep waiting for you to have a change of heart.”

 

Another breath in, hold it. Count to five. Let out it. Try and stop trembling, but she can't, and there are new tears on her eyelashes. God, she wants to make this all stop. But hope does not spring eternal, life isn't a storybook, and she's never going to get the prince. Tom is decent and good and he  _loves_  her. It's nice to be loved, even if she doesn't... but time will change things, she's sure of it, and she'll be happy. Won't she?

 

“Molly, I...” Sherlock rasps. Staring at her with huge, electric eyes, it's easy to see how his two years as a dead man aged him. He looks so  _old_ , and incredibly fragile. At the same time, there is something very young about him, a child that has just had his dearest wish ripped away.

 

And then – then he's reaching out, stepping close, burrowing his fingers into her hair and pulling her close. He leans in – down, down, down; onto her level, leaving his comfortable position in the clouds – and suddenly his mouth on hers and Molly's tears are on his cheeks. He tastes of whiskey and cigarettes and longing. (But how – but  _why_ –) This is no mere kiss, no simple meeting of lips and pressing of tongues; this is a wordless plea of desperation, a soul-wrenching cry of absolute  _fear_.

 

Sherlock kisses Molly so thoroughly that her head spins and her legs grow weak. When he speaks his words go into her mouth, trickle across her tongue and down her throat. “Don't leave me,” he pleads, and suckles her lower lip until Molly has to fist her hands in his jacket to keep from falling. “I'm going mad thinking about you with  _him_ ,” he spits, and the sheer  _hatred_ imbued in that single word that stands for Tom – the enemy, the one who has the woman that matters the most – is more vicious than any amount of cruel deductions he left unspoken. “I dream of you. I miss you when you're not with me. I loathe myself for the pain I caused you – what a pompous, arrogant,  _terrified_  bastard I was.

 

“I always saw you, Molly. It scared me to death, not what you so obviously wanted from me, but that I wanted it in return. I thought I had to be singular, alone... but I can't  _do_ it anymore, I can't be without you –” Oh God, these kisses,  _Sherlock's kisses_  – the grip he takes on her, as though terrified she'll leap from his arms and run away, or perhaps disappear –

 

And his words. His wonderful, fantastical declarations. How? How had Molly missed this? She's always watched him, always, how did she not see...?

 

“If this is a lie – a manipulation – ”

 

“Never,” he swears, and somehow the door is shut and they're nearly to the bed. His jacket is gone, Molly's bow is loose, looser, falling down to hang on her shoulder. Sherlock is making disgruntled noises, dexterous fingers working to pull her ponytail free without hurting her. Now her hair is loose, swinging heavily down her back while he combs it out, and they're toppling onto the bed while Molly hangs onto Sherlock for dear life.

 

“I'm dreaming?” she asks, and as quickly as it came the rush is gone. There are no clinging lips, desperate hands, pressing bodies; there is only Sherlock's sad gaze as he balances on one forearm, staring down at her.

 

He shakes his head. “No. If this were a dream, Molly Hooper, you wouldn't have that ring on your finger.”

 

They both look down, and there it is. Three little diamonds in white gold, sweet looking and just a bit too loose. She's been meaning to have it sized, but would that have really helped? It has wanted off her finger since the day it was put there.

 

With deliberate motions, she lifts her hands. Slowly she pulls the ring off, knowing this is a choice she can never take back once it's done. The air feels strange against that little patch of skin, a bit whiter than the rest of her flesh. She holds the ring between thumb and index finger, a lump forming in her throat.

 

“I do care for him,” she admits. “But if you're sure this is what you want...”

 

Before she has time to react, the ring is gone. Vanished. There's a positively ravenous look to Sherlock in this moment, as though he's been starved for weeks and is now set before a twelve course meal. And he's  _everywhere_ , all at once. Hands, mouth, pressing a knee between her thighs and growling when the zipper of her dress catches.

 

“Here, let me –”

 

“Stop squirming, Molly, you're making it worse.”

 

“No, you can't tug like that. If you'd just –”

 

“You aren't terribly attached to this dress, are you?”

 

“What? Why?”

 

A hard yank, the sound of linen tearing, Molly's gasp of shock. He's grinning like a teenage boy, smug as ever. “Oops,” he drawls, eyebrows dancing.

 

“I  _like_  this dress!”

 

“I'll buy you a new one.”

 

“But it won't be  _this_ one.”

 

Now here's an awkward shuffle, while they both set about squirming and writhing and rolling about as they attempt to undress. One of Sherlock's shoes knocks a vase off a table, and the carpet soon has a soggy patch from the water that spills out along with the fresh cut flowers. He gets stuck in his shirt, cursing wildly and – is that a – yes, he's  _blushing_.

 

Free of her dress and so giddy it feels as though she's been pumped full of helium and is in danger of floating away, Molly takes advantage of his position. Within seconds he's sprawled on his back and she's straddling those narrow hips, burning with excitement and nervousness and disbelief. Sherlock is spread under her, far more stunning than any marble statue that does not feel or respond to the touch of her hand.

 

Giving her a faintly dazed sort of look, the sort that makes it clear he is a man that is fully appreciating the fact that a half-nude, beautiful woman is leering at him as though he's a dainty milkmaid about to be taken advantage of (oh God, now she's picturing him in a tiny little skirt and pigtails – don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh –), Sherlock can't hold back a smile. “What do you think you're doing, Miss Hooper?”

 

“ _Doctor_ Hooper, thank you. And I'm admiring the view from up here, if you must know.”

 

“Admiring, hmm?” Oh, she's going to have to deflate his ego after this, otherwise it'll be so large he won't be able to fit through doorways.

 

The only answer she can give is a laugh, and for the first time since – since  _forever_ , maybe – Molly is burning with happiness. She's on fire with it, inside and out, burning down to ashes and being born anew as a woman that has had all of her dreams realized: she has fallen in love, and he  _loves her back_. The fact that he hasn't said those words, and perhaps never will, it means so very little in the grand scheme of things.

 

She knows him well enough to see the words he leaves unspoken.

 

Soon enough, Sherlock is waging war against her bra. As nimble and clever as his truly lovely fingers may be, they're not well accustomed to the tiny hooks that accompany a woman's foundation garments. He pouts when she laughs, purses his mouth and gives her a sullen stare before the offending brassiere is flung behind her shoulder. (What Molly doesn't know is that later she'll find it dangling from the shade of a standing lamp). No, now he's all wonder, eyes narrowing as he becomes focused in a way only Sherlock Holmes can manage.

 

Being under Sherlock's mental microscope is both terrifying and thrilling. Molly knows he can see  _all_ of her; not only flesh, but the past and all her secrets. What does the scar on her left hip say? Does he know that it was an ice skating accident when she was twelve, that she fell through thin ice and thought she was going to die? That the blade of her brother's boot cut her when she was being pulled out, but she hadn't felt anything? Everything had been numb and fuzzy, and the blood had looked so very bright and pretty against the ice and snow drift.

 

That's when she first encountered death, hovered on the knife edge between it and life. It's the day she decided it didn't scare her (until she thought it was Sherlock that might truly be on the autopsy table, those years ago, and she's never been so frightened before or since), and what led to her chosen field of pathology.

 

_I'm going to tell him that story_ , she decides, but on another day. Now is not the time for thoughts of the past but of the future, of what could and will be.

 

“You're beautiful,” Sherlock announces in a bare, choked whisper. There are tears –  _tears!_ – in his eyes, and oh how they shine. How gentle his fingers are, rough and scarred from fights and abuse and lab accidents and his violin, drifting over her ribs and stomach. Goosebumps rise where he touches, and he seems fascinated by the reaction – and somehow unaware that a tear has leaked from the corner of his right eye, and is now slowly dripping towards his ear.

 

Molly doesn't point it out. There's no reason, no need, to make him uncomfortable. Instead she rests on his thighs and lets him touch her, explore her, familiarizing himself with her textures and scent and slopes as he does the alleys and backstreets and tube stations of London. It takes a rather long time, but what does she care? They've got all the time in the world, haven't they?

 

His mouth quirks into a sly, smug smile as he discovers the rondure of her breasts and sensitivity of her nipples. Molly gasps and he laughs, a pleasant, happy sound. Large palms smooth over Molly's shoulders, thumbs tracing the sharp angles of her collarbones. He measures her wrists, and seems awed by how delicate they are in comparison to his sturdier frame.

 

“You're beautiful,” he repeats, holding her hips as he rolls, switching their positions.

 

Oh, his mouth, what a wonder it is: Molly could spend the rest of her life kissing him and not have enough. She's starved for him, a plant stretching leaves and petals towards the sun. She's drunk on him, dizzy and swept away and utterly amazed at the fact that this is  _happening_.

 

Soon enough there is nothing but air separating their skin, and then not even that. It feels as though Molly has been hooked into an electrical socket, is being pumped full of strong current, almost deadly and utterly addictive. Is this what he felt like on the drugs? No, not possible; nothing could be as sweet, as wonderful, as  _this_.

 

In the future, Molly will admit (to a very select few, Sherlock included) that this was the first time she had ever made love. Oh yes, she'd had sex, she'd shagged, she'd fucked, she'd even endured midnight attentions when she would have much rather been sleeping; but this moment, this very moment of Sherlock entering her and the look of sheer wonder in on his face...  _this_  is love making.  _This_ is a connection that is more than bodies and sexual drive and the fight for release. It's heart and soul and passion, so intense that she's got a fistful of sheets in one hand and can't breathe.

 

“Oh God, oh God,” she prays, but she's looking at Sherlock, yes, because there's nothing and no one else in the entire  _universe_. There is only this man – this brilliant, odd, desperately vulnerable man – and herself. Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock and Molly. Somehow she knows this is the way it was always meant to be, despite the pain and hurts and trials they've both gone through. It was always going to come to this moment, when stars are exploding behind her eyes in blazes of white and gold, when Sherlock is pressing his face into her hair and whispering her name endlessly –  _Molly, Molly, Molly_ – as though it's his only chance of salvation, a personal prayer not meant to be heard by anyone else.

 

Her hand drifts down his back, tracing the couture of muscle and bone under skin. Once he had been an icon, so remote and untouchable, but now he is simply a man, a man with faults and goodness the same as anyone else. “I love you,” Molly whispers, kissing his jaw, his ear, his neck.

 

Sherlock's answer is a long, ragged exhale, a choked noise that is not quite a sob, and a wetness that is absolutely tears. His confessions are ones Molly will hold close to heart for the rest of her life, and are meant only for her ears alone.

 

“It's all right. I'm here, Sherlock. I'm right here, and I always will be.”

 

_Yes_ , she thinks, turning her face into the moonglow spilling through the window,  _I always will be._

 

 

\----X----

 

 

They run into each other at a public park, and of course Molly looks like she's swallowed Jupiter and all its moons. A well tailored coat can only do so much when she's this far along, she is discovering; it certainly does nothing to detract from the waddle.

 

“Oh my God,  _Molly_?” Tom is utterly flabbergasted, eyes jerking from her stomach to her face and back again. His hair is shorter now, and there are a few more lines beside his eyes. “Wow, look at you.”

 

“I know, I know!” She pats her stomach before accepting a brief hug and kiss on the cheek.

 

“So, um, wow. You're having a baby! Congratulations. I remember how much you wanted to start a family.”

 

“Yeah, um, it's twins actually. A boy and a girl. Got a list of names taller than I am, though not quite as wide.” They both laugh, and God, it's so awkward. Mostly because Molly is sure she's seeing longing in Tom's gaze, not very well hidden, and it makes her so guilty she could vomit. (To be fair, she does that all on her own quite regularly, thanks to the babies.)

 

She'd make the same choice over again a thousand times if came down to it, but she wishes now she'd never been so cruel as to use Tom to try and forget Sherlock. It wasn't fair.

 

It's amazing the multitude of sins she'd commit in the name of love.

 

Sherlock announces himself with, “Extra hot fudge and nuts,” appearing out of the milling crowd to present Molly with a Styrofoam cup and plastic spoon. The hot fudge steams in the cold air, and Molly nearly whimpers gratefully at the sight of it.

 

“Hi!” chirps Calliope, perched contentedly in her father's grasp. Between the collar of her thick winter coat and the stocking cap pulled low enough to cover her ears, her little face is pink from the cold. She's a bright little girl, beautiful and intelligent and all the best of both her parents.

 

Tom looks at her – an almost three year old with her father's curls peaking out from under her cap and his eyes, her mum's nose and wide smile – and Molly can clearly see his pain and shock. He's no Sherlock, but it isn't hard to guess Calliope's age and compare it to he and Molly's break-up.

 

“Oh,” he says in a strangled sort of way, “hullo, there. What's your name?”

 

“Calliope. What's yours?”

  
“I'm – I'm Tom. Nice to meet you, Calliope. And how old are you?”

 

“Three in sixty-seven days!” She quivers in excitement about her upcoming birthday, bouncing in Sherlock's grasp. He gives her an utterly indulgent smile, readjusting his hold on her.

 

“Such a big girl,” Tom chokes out, his jaw jumping and eyes bright.

 

Molly begins to eat her ice cream, nervous and desperate to do something with her hands.

 

“Hello, Tom.”

 

“Sherlock.” They shake hands, staring for a rather long time before nodding and pulling away.

 

“Well, um, it was nice to see you two. Congratulations on um – on everything.”

 

“Thanks. Thank you so much, Tom. Nice to see you, as well, and I hope you're doing well.”

 

“Great. I'm great. See you later, Molly. Sherlock.”

 

Calliope sings out, “Bye-bye, Tom!” Her wave is enthusiastic: it's amazing how ice cream can cheer a little girl up. Half an hour ago she'd been positively morose, sobbing in Mrs. Hudson's lap and demanding they stay at Baker Street.

 

“God, that was awkward.”

 

“Mmm. You've got fudge on your nose.”

 

Flushing, Molly swipes it off with a gloved hand. Wisely Sherlock keeps his laughter to himself, but cannot suppress a smile. They set off walking, back to the mad house that Baker Street has become. Moving is frightful enough when Sherlock keeps shouting “Don't  _touch_  that, I'll do it!” and Calliope is screaming her head off when her toys are being boxed up, but add in the in-laws visiting, as well... Molly doesn't know how she's not torn her hair out.

 

“Are you sorry?” Sherlock's question comes out of the blue. He's staring straight ahead, and has an almost desperate hold on Calliope. For the toddler's part, she notices nothing out of the ordinary, as she is too busy waving at everyone they pass by.

 

“How could I possibly be sorry?” Passing a public rubbish bin, Molly tosses the empty container and spoon away before threading her arm through Sherlock's. His pace is slow, especially considering his usual stride, but he's usually quite good about making sure to match Molly's speed instead of making her struggle to keep up. “I've got you, Calliope, the twins... I wouldn't trade a second of it for a lifetime with Tom.”

 

Sherlock's smile says it all. 


End file.
